


What do we say about coincidence?

by AurorFelicis3755



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, Drug Use, Fix-It, Honeymoon, Light casefic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Smoking, stalkerish brotherly behaviour, this was meant to be crack but here we are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-05 00:59:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15852990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurorFelicis3755/pseuds/AurorFelicis3755
Summary: A week after John and Mary get married, they leave for their honeymoon in Nice, on the south coast of France. Lestrade and Mycroft work together to find a case to distract a lonely and depressed Sherlock. A little oversight sends Sherlock away from Baker Street for this case... to the same French city. Realising there's nothing to be done but watch it play out, Lestrade and Mycroft settle in with popcorn to watch thing unfold through surveillance reports.Somewhere along the line, John realises his marriage may, possibly, have been a mistake.Inspired by this post:https://thejohnlockoutlet.tumblr.com/post/177590553478/firebirdscratches-whitepeopletwitter-i-really





	1. Sherlock is a sad bean in this chapter. So is John, but he has tea.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic AUs that a week after their wedding John and Mary took this honeymoon, mainly because HLV has a lot of complicated plot I couldn’t be bothered to make fit with my ideas for this. Also, Mary isn’t pregnant. Other than that, it’s pretty canon compliant.
> 
> I’m leaving the chapter titles as the working titles I gave them as I wrote because I thought they were funny, and I couldn’t think of anything better.
> 
> I’m TheJohnlockOutlet on Tumblr, come find me! I love to talk to new people, about this fic, or anything random that pops into your head!

 

———

 

_FAO: Mycroft Holmes_

_URGENT report on the activities of W.S.S.H._

_06.07.2014_

_Surveillance level ultra confirmed._

_J.H.W. leaves for Nice, FR. as planned 0700 tomorrow._

_Danger night for W.S.S.H. Observation maintained._

_\- Special Agent Sam_

 

Sherlock was sulking. Nothing new there. John wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was actually a little hurt by Sherlock’s lack of interest in the fact that he was leaving the country for a week, but he had to admit to himself that it hurt. It wasn’t really a surprise; Sherlock had been very distant since his and Mary’s wedding last weekend. His texts hadn’t been answered, and Sherlock had been out the couple of times he’d called round to Baker Street. It seemed like now John was settled in a marriage, Sherlock had decided that he was too old, or to boring to be included in his wild, exciting life. He wouldn’t even meet John’s eye as he and Mary said fond goodbyes to Mrs Hudson and discussed the weather in the south of France at this time of year and where they were staying and their flight arrangements. Sherlock was tuning it all out, John knew him well enough to know that. He was in his mind palace, off thinking something through, in some memory or strand of reasoning. Sherlock had stopped even pretending to listen, his back to John and Mary, looking out onto the street below. His shoulders were stiff.

Leaving Mary discussing her wedding dress with Mrs Hudson - for about the hundredth time - John approached Sherlock, placing a hand on his shoulder. He remained tense under John’s touch. Sherlock had never been receptive to this sort of contact with other people.

“Sherlock?” No response. “I’ll see you in a week, alright? We can go for dinner when we get back, you, me and Mary, we’ll tell you all about it-”

“I would take absolutely no pleasure in hearing details about your “sex holiday”. I am very busy with casework at the moment and it is unlikely I will be able to see you for … _dinner_. I’m sure you will bare the loss with due dignity.” Sherlock flounced into his bedroom, slamming the door.

“Tut, Sherlock, the neighbours!” Mrs Hudson remarked automatically. “He’s very unsettled by the change, and of course, he will miss you both, but once you’re back and there’s a routine he understands in place, he will be back to his normal self again.” John highly doubted this, but saying so would do no good to anybody. The relationship he and Sherlock had once had seemed irreparably changed; they hadn’t been right since he had been dead - or not, as it turned out - for two years, and with Mary now in the picture, their friendship was more strained than it ever had been. This was a fact that John was doing his best to optimistically ignore. He wasn’t succeeding.

 

———

 

Sherlock leant back against the closed door, and let out a deep sigh. Initial relief at being free from the painful situation was quickly replaced by a feeling that had become much more familiar to him over the past week. It sat low and heavy in his stomach, a constant downward force acting upon him. He wasn’t used to such flights and troughs of emotion - it was one of the things that initially drew him to John Watson in the first place, the turbulent emotional response he drew out of Sherlock. He usually managed to keep detached from people, keep them at a distance, even those he liked. Meeting John had suddenly made him feel like he had been going through life in a bubble. He saw how alone he had been, and he realised what he had been missing. What he was now, once again, without.

He hadn’t realised, until the wedding itself, that this was really happening. It had been a game, a task of organisation. He’d enjoyed the mental exercise, figuring out the little details of the day John would like. Completely ignoring the emotional significance the day could hold. But it had cemented in Sherlock’s mind, in the small country church decorated in blooms he himself had chosen. The ceremony. Those words. Those promises. _With my body I honour you… all that I am I give to you.. all that I have I share with you…_ Things that Sherlock had dreamed one day, impossibly, John may speak to him. He watched from the front pew as John spoke them to Mary, and as the church doors closed behind the couple and confetti flew, he felt the doors finally close on his hope for him and John ever to be anything more than friends.

He did want John to be happy though, above everything. So he was doing his best not to be… himself. He tried to give them their space and let their relationship give John the fulfilment that Sherlock could never show him. If Mary made John happy, Sherlock would let them be happy. He just couldn’t watch it happening. Not when he was so helplessly miserable.

Darkness falling outside the bedroom window, he sat in his mind palace for a little while, sorting out memories of John. He tried to forget every detail he could about the wedding and the sex holiday and their flat full of new kitchen appliances and clean tabletops. He shook his head. Only insignificant details like dates and locations could be deleted; his head still drowns in the memory of John’s tender eyes on Mary in her dress, his hand on Sherlock’s knee in the drunken haze of the stag night, _the two people who love you most in the world…_

 

———

 

The airport was a hassle, as John expected. He hates domestic travel abroad, but Mary insisted. Apparently it’s not a real holiday if there isn’t a beach. When John pointed out that England has beaches, the look he got in return told him it wasn’t worth the argument. As a second hour passes trapped in the nether-zone between security and the boarding gate, Mary decides she’s going to browse the shops, just for something to do. John remains seated, blaming his leg. Since the wedding he has felt more pain in the joints than he has since- well, since he met Sherlock and moved into 221B, years back.

The memory of their first adventure together puts a warm smile on his face he can’t seem to hide. He slides his phone out of his pocket, and before he knows it, he’s fired off a text which is perhaps more affectionate than he would’ve written in the presence of his wife. Since Sherlock’s return, she has always been careful that they don’t have too much time alone together. John tries to find this jealousy sweet.

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**05:40**

**Missing u already. Will see u again before u know it! JW**

 

Not expecting a reply, he switches his phone off and spends the rest of the wait trying to get some sleep.

Later on, they check in to their holiday apartment, exhausted. After staying up a couple of hours lamely trying to stay awake and read, they give in and decide to take an afternoon nap. Mary brings him a cup of tea in bed, and John smiles at her, feeling like finally he had something which resembled a normal life. He and Mary had a nice flat back home, they were married, they were doing well at their jobs - Mary had even been on a couple of business trips abroad recently. This is what John knew people wanted out of life, and that thought reassured him that he was on the right track. Everyone has doubts about big decisions, especially something as big as a marriage. It’s normal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been to a LOT of Church of England weddings, I used to be paid to sing at them, so unfortunately I have painful details about the ceremony Sherlock would have watched Mary and John have. The quoted text is said as the rings are exchanged, if anyone was wondering. Also if you want a sad half an hour, look at the rest of the vows and imagine Sherlock listening to this ceremony happening, I did this yesterday for research for this, and now I’m dead inside :)
> 
> Next chapter will be up by Tuesday!


	2. Sherlock loses it, and then plot things go down due to a painful misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a case, and Lestrade needs to learn to text properly to avoid catastrophic misunderstandings...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags; there’s canon-typical drug use mentioned here and throughout the fic. You have been warned!  
> Sorry that these idiots all text like dads but honestly you know that Lestrade doesn’t have time to type out full words on a 2014 phone keyboard.  
> I’m also sorry that it’s very sad most of the way through this story! I needed to write myself out of the sadness of this part of canon and give it a much swifter and simpler happy ending than we will ever get in the show itself, but I must admit that there’s still a lot to work through and deal with before we get there in this fic. I’m suffering too, but I promise we’ll escape this sadness and it will be all worth it in the end!

_FAO: Mycroft Holmes_

 

_URGENT report on the activities of W.S.S.H._

 

_07.07.2014_

 

_Surveillance level ultra maintained._

_Red alert: W.S.S.H has searched whole flat, assumed with aim to find drugs. Has found cigarettes as of 1300 and has made contact with dealers. No sign of interest in finding a case, but has spent time on J.H.W.’s laptop. Looked at blog pages. Checked mobile phone 7 times. No outgoing messages or calls._

_Recommended action: have G.L. assigned difficult cases which will require W.S.S.H.’s assistance. Personal visit also suggested._

__

_\- Special Agent Sam_

 

**To: Mycroft Holmes**

**15:40**

**U can just ask me 2 give Sherlock a case u no! Big stack of paperwork I gotta do now, thnx :(**

 

**To: D.I. Lestrade**

**15:52**

**Apologies for the extra work. Ensure to pass on the most difficult case.**

 

**To: Mycroft Holmes**

**16:02**

**Visiting 221b after work with nice case, will stick around for a drink if he will have me lol**

 

**To: D.I. Lestrade**

**16:15**

**Case sounds good. Will do him good. Was going to pay a visit myself this evening. Might see you later then.**

 

**To: Mycroft Holmes**

**16:17**

**:)**

 

Mycroft sighed, a small amount of relief flooding him. A nice case, for Sherlock. That should do the trick. This whole Dr Watson situation had signalled danger to Mycroft since they had met, and he had closely monitored the situation to prevent such a thing from happening, but as he watched, it had happened anyway, and now Sherlock was hurt. He was so soft. Mycroft needed to protect him. A nice case, yes.

 

Eyes straining in the dim light of New Scotland Yard’s very outdated office building, Lestrade tidied the papers on his desk, picking out the file for the case he’d told Lestrade he’d show to Sherlock this evening, the case out in Nice, France. He had been a little worried that Mycroft might object to sending Sherlock away from London at this difficult time, but Lestrade seemed to think it would do him good, and thinking about it, Baker Street may not be the best place for Sherlock to stay right now, living alone where he once lived with a companion. Lestrade knew that feeling. The emptiness he still feels in his own home is pronounced and painful, despite his wife having left a couple of years ago now. If there’s any way he can help Sherlock feel any better than he did when his wife left him, he will do whatever he can.

 

Mrs Hudson seems so relieved when she sees Lestrade at the door it increases the pit of worry in his stomach. The woman is always in a flap, but beneath that is steely strength that is usually a match for Sherlock’s most severe tantrums. She looks out of her depth today.

 

“He’s upstairs, and he won’t let me in, I’m so glad you’re here.” Mrs Hudson looked at him pleadingly. “You have a case for him?”

 

Lestrade gave her a weak smile. “Yes, a big one, out in Europe. Bit of time away from this place, bit of fresh air and sun, and a distracting case. Murders, several. He’ll love it.”

 

“He needs something. John being away has left him… bereft, I’d call it.”

 

“I think he is. He never had lot of people. And none that he let into his life like John.”

 

Mrs Hudson gently smiled, understanding, and let him upstairs. “Good luck,” she whispered, and slunk back downstairs, to safety.Lestrade knocked on the door and braced himself. This was going to be tough.

 

 

———

 

 

What feels like hours later, Lestrade closes the door of 221B. It hasn’t been as he had expected at all. Sherlock was almost entirely non-responsive, but not because his mind was busy, as it often was when he tuned Lestrade out. Even when the detective was still, there was always a sense of movement about him, as if he was always ready to jump up at a moment’s notice. The outside was often still, but behind the eyes you could sense the furious movement, turning over facts and ideas and connecting clues to form answers. Not so today. Sherlock had been truly still, his eyes closed, curled in his armchair, and honestly, looking a mess. Sherlock was often dishevelled, but he did take pride in keeping smart, and his appearance going downhill was a reliable mirror of how he was feeling inside.

 

Lestrade had let himself in when his knocks weren’t answered, and sat down on the sofa, putting the case file on the coffee table. Sherlock knows he’s there to give him a case, yet doesn’t show any of the usual signs of interest, replying only in grunts. He does perk up a bit when Lestrade begins to outline the details of the case;ex-pat Carlson Murphy has been murdered in his home, a gunshot to the head from considerable distance, the fourth in a series of such murders. High society escort Victoire Trevor is suspected of the murder - all the victims were her clients, several of whom had left money to her in their will. Local police can’t find sufficient evidence to convict, and doubts have been placed on Trevor’s ability to make such accurate, long-distance shots.

 

Sherlock did seem intrigued by the case, sitting up in his chair as Lestrade read him the particulars. He remained inside of himself, not even looking at the other man as he spoke, but Lestrade could see his brain start moving again, like a rusty car engine being revved into action.

 

“And so, you’ll be needed out on location, in Nice. It’s a nice city, and there’s a flight and rooms booked if you’ll take the case.”

 

Sherlock inhales sharply and turns a severe eye on Lestrade. “Why do the French police want _me_ there? My international reputation is not so adored that an underfunded French police force would pay out of pocket for my detective services.”

 

“Ah. That’s the thing. The French police aren’t paying. The British Secret Service are.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and slumps down into the chair again. “Mycroft. Why does Mycroft want me there?”

 

“Trevor is blackmailing the Secret Service… She has information and wants protection from the French legal system. Puts us in a damn difficult position if she's guilty, so we need to know as soon as possible if she's guilty or not. Mycroft needs it sorted. He knows you’ll do the job best.” Lestrade sighed. “There are other cases for you, if you don’t want this one, but I just thought… a change of scene?”

 

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. He was visibly thinking things over. “France, yes? Nice?” Lestrade nodded in reply. “Isn’t that… I was sure… Where has John gone?”

 

“Come on Sherlock. Would Mycroft have put you on a case in the same town as John is on his honeymoon? The poor man wants some peace, Mycroft knows he deserves a bit of that!” The joke falls flat, a lame attempt at making the mood in the room slightly less despairing. But the point gets through to Sherlock even so; of course Mycroft wouldn’t’ve agreed to send him on a case where John was. Mycroft, through their mutual surface hatred, genuinely cared about Sherlock, and knew how being near John celebrating his new marriage would hurt him. And maybe a time away from his and John’s familiar haunts and shared rooms would help him to refocus his life back around his work. He’d been distracted by John Watson for far too long now.

 

Leaving Sherlock with the case file, Lestrade stomped down the stairs, hoping he’s at least helped a little. Sherlock hadn’t let him stay for a drink, becoming scornful at the idea, and demanding to be left alone. A lonely evening at home for the police detective, then.

 

He was so absorbed in this cheerful prospect that he almost bumped right into Mycroft on the pavement outside 221B, getting out of an obscenely posh car.

 

“My apologies, Lestrade! That’s the second time today I seem to have made your life worse.”

 

“At the point you nearly impale me on your umbrella, you’ve earned the right to call me Greg,” Lestrade replied with a chuckle.

 

“Yes, I um, don’t believe we’ve ever really met in person. Mycroft.” He puts out his hand and Lestrade shakes it, with a smile.

 

“Good to meet you in person. Although if you’re here to see Sherlock, I don’t think he’s gonna have the same response. He’s… not in the mood for visitors.”

 

“Ah.” Mycroft clearly understands.

 

“I gave him the case though, and he’s taken it. He seems off, he’s hurting, but he’ll get back to himself soon, I’m sure of it.”

 

“Hmm. I hope so. He suffers more than he shows. He always has.” They share a look. Their mutual affection for the detective sat alone upstairs is obvious. Lestrade hasn’t really felt like he could talk to anyone about Sherlock; the force always mocked him, and though John was always there, the daft idiot never realised he was in love with the man which made it difficult for them to have an unbiassed discussion.

 

“So, he was always… like that?” Lestrade gestures vaguely. No words can really describe Sherlock.

 

“Quite. It’s a bit of a long story.”

 

“I don’t suppose you’d want to share the juicy details? There’s a decent pub round the corner.”

 

“I don’t see why not. Nothing to rush home for.” Mycroft gave Lestrade a shy smile and he threw a grin back. Maybe this evening wouldn’t be so lonely after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’d think I engineered this whole thing around the Nice/nice confusion - but actually I only thought of that as I wrote this chapter, having planned the whole thing… I just chose it because I went there on holiday this year, and I read a lot of Johnlock fics out there, so I was imagining John and Sherlock in that place. John’s shitty airport experience was nothing compared to mine though, I have no sympathy for him. We had issues checking our bags, my medication nearly got taken away in airport security - I had to take the whole night’s dose before we went through, we were stuck in a boiling hot corridor with no water for several hours while I was feeling like death from all the medication and there was no where to sit down. I nearly passed out! Then we were stuck on a grounded plane for another hour, which finally took off giving me the worst headache I’ve ever experienced in my life, I thought my skull was cracking open, it was hell. The saving grace was that I’d downloaded my favourite ever fanfic, Dear John by wendymarlowe, to reread. I owe that author my life, I’m sure! I don’t know why I’m writing this annecdote here, but things have kind of got away from me a bit. I’ll wrap it up now. Next chapter expected next Monday, or before!


	3. John is unsettled on honeymoon (he keeps having them gay thoughts) and Mycroft realises some stuff, grabs boyfriend and popcorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is the summary of this one; angsty John, annoying Sherlock, and overbearing brother Mycroft... A bet is placed, and the show begins!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you spot any errors or typos in this, all my writing is unedited or beta’d because I’m a stubborn bitch who doesn’t like to be told I’m wrong. This chapter was super tricky to write - I’ve wrested with it for hours, it did not come easy. I hope it reads ok! It’s very angsty-John-ful, but I’ve merged it with the next chapter so there’s some lighter stuff at the end! Bear through it!  
> Also, apologies for the late upload. I’m trying to stick to an upload schedule but I’ve had some unexpected health issues this week so I had to delay writing until I could sit and write on my laptop without being in pain - give me that sympathy kudos ;)  
> Watch out for some filthy language from Lestrade!

The realisation hits John suddenly, unexpectedly, as he looks around the crowded beach. He is not enjoying himself. That, in itself, doesn’t surprise him, he’s been very aware of that fact this whole time. But what shocks him is the realisation that he probably- well, he probably should be.

 

Everyone around him is having the time of their life.

 

Misery has been the background radiation of his life for so long now, he’d almost forgotten it wasn’t how people were supposed to be. His happiness was a lost cause, a childish dream he’d stopped chasing years ago. He tried to be content with contentment, or resigned to his resignation, but he inevitably ended miserable about his misery.

 

This marriage should be bringing him peace; after all, that’s why he’s entered into it in the first place. A routine to support him, stability to keep him feeling in control. The military drilled a lifestyle of strict conformity into him, and so the suburban life he’ll build with Mary, that will give him the regimented and predictable lifestyle which will keep him steady. The rollercoaster life is not for him, he’s had his fill.

 

When he had first met Mary, John was haunted by the shadow of Sherlock - of all he had lost, and of all he could’ve had. He wasn’t such an idiot to have not realised the chance he had missed because of all he hadn’t said. He had been interested in Sherlock right from the start - attracted, even - and that feeling had only grown as they slipped into a platonic domesticity at Baker Street. He’d yearned for more. But he had never had any sign of the feeling shared beyond fierce friendship from a man who rarely let people know him. The ghost of all he should’ve said had loomed large over him for dark months, his brain filled with “what if”s that he could never get the answers to. Mary had drawn him out of his shell; she never gave up on him, though he was in an awful state. She brought a spark of the flame of Sherlock back into his life. They would go on little adventures together: driving too fast down the motorway, walking home late at night instead of taking a cab, surprise trips away with the loosest of plans, living off their wits. She feels wild and unpredictable, and yet reliable and secure in way Sherlock never was. And she was a woman who wanted to settle and start a life together. Properly, together. She was beautiful, smart, witty, and understanding. This should be what John wants. Like Sherlock, but with a stronger understanding of her own emotions, and a clearer care and commitment to John. And there’s that added bonus, that she didn’t fake her own death and make John believe she was dead for two years. He can trust Mary. There are no secrets between them.

 

So, he’s getting what he wants. He should be pleased - if not as happy as young lovers are, then at least content and relaxed. The tempest of emotions constantly raging inside his head should be calmer, not building stronger and closer to the surface. He can’t get excited about anything Mary has planned for them out here, and regardless of his interest in the activities he churlishly wants to push against Mary’s schedule. How could the wedding have been so perfectly to his taste, and the honeymoon so far from what he wanted? Such a strict itinerary should suit him, and yet the monotony of it seems terrifying. He pushes this and all other thoughts aside. That was a dangerous train of thought.

 

“Ice cream?” Mary offers, a kindness intended to smooth over cracks appearing in their cheerful newlywed facade.

 

John tries. “Sure, that’d be great.”

 

“Any preference on flavour?”

 

“Surprise me!” He says it with a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. Whatever flavour she choses will be the wrong one and they both know it.

 

Relieved by the unexpected moment of solitude, he checks his phone, out of habit. Nothing. Not that he expected there to be anything… but maybe Sherlock might have needed his opinion on a case, or something. He didn’t want to leave his friend in the lurch.

 

John watches a pinprick-sized plane cross the bright blue sky, and wishes he knew what the detective was currently occupying his mind with.

 

 

———

 

 

Unfortunately, the passengers of flight EZY1895, London Stansted to Nice Côte d’Azur, knew exactly what was occupying Sherlock Holmes’s mind, because it was their private business, being loudly and unapologetically deduced in between moans of exasperation.

 

Those poor souls seated near him also overheard extracts of muttering, “…bloody brother… a budget airline… has three private jets… petty gesture … wait till he finds out what I put in his sugar…”

 

 

———

 

 

_FAO: Mycroft Holmes_

 

_URGENT report on the activities of J.H.W._

 

_[1 attached document]_

 

_08.07.2014_

 

_Surveillance level alpha maintained._

_J.H.W. and M.E.W. arrived at holiday destination at 1400, 07.07.2014. Afternoon spent in holiday apartment, J.H.W. asleep early. Observation maintained until 1900._

_Observation resumed at 0800, J.H.W. and M.E.W. ate breakfast in apartment then spent day on Nice beach. Returned 1800 after argument. Speculation: J.H.W. does not seem relaxed. Could be danger if contacts W.S.S.H. but no phone contact has been intercepted since airport texts [see attached file]._

_Reservations made for 2000 dinner at Le Negresco Hotel. Plans for the rest of the day unconfirmed._

 

_\- Special Agent Bill_

 

 

———

 

 

 

_FAO: Mycroft Holmes_

 

_URGENT report on the activities of W.S.S.H._

 

_08.07.2014_

 

_Surveillance level ultra maintained._

_W.S.S.H. landed in Nice, FR at 1655, arrived in arranged accommodation 1900. Frustrated state of mind but seems stimulated by casework. Wifi connection poor, causing increased frustration. W.S.S.H. has found skull and is talking out stresses - unconfirmed if this is new acquisition or has recovered old skull. Not sure how airport security didn’t pick up on human skull in luggage: suggest investigation into British Border Force._

 

_\- Special Agent Sam_

 

 

———

 

 

Lestrade hasn’t had a great day, and the idea of a pint on his sofa with some crap telly is the only thing that’s kept him sane the last few hours. Sighing with relief at the familiar feeling of leather supporting his tired body, he pulls out his phone for a quick scroll through Facebook. Two cousins of his seem to be having a heated political debate in the comments of some article - _not getting involved in that_ , he thinks. A colleague on the force having a good moan about the lady that serves the dinners in the canteen, a video of a cat in a cardboard box - why is he on this stupid site anyway? Ah, that’s something he’s interested in, a selfie of John and Mary on their honeymoon, sweet. A beach holiday, how nice for them… nice- _wait. No._

 

An urgent knocking disrupts his panic. He opens the door to find a three-piece suit holding together a breathless man.

 

“Where - _pant_ \- did - _pant_ \- you send - _pant_ \- Sherlock?”

 

“Mycroft, come in, sit, you look like you’re gonna die. Did you _run_ here?”

 

“Government cars busy. Speed essential.” Mycroft’s breath is returning as he takes a seat on Lestrade’s sofa. “Answer question. Nice case or _nice_ case?” With the different inflection of the word, the penny drops for Lestrade.

 

“Ah, shit. You thought… and that’s where John is…”

 

“Both of them, in the same small French city, eating salad Niçoise feet away from eachother as we speak. Oh god, what the hell have I done…”

 

“Mycroft, mate,” Lestrade speaks gently; the other man seems more unsettled than he’s ever been in Lestrade’s presence. “It’s both of our faults. What can we do now? Get Sherlock back here? Warn John?”

 

“No, we mustn’t tell John he’s there. My intelligence suggests that he shouldn’t be near Sherlock at present. His current state is volatile. It seems he’s not a big fan of seaside holidays. If only Mary had let Sherlock plan the honeymoon as well as the wedding…”

 

“Your intelligence? Of course, you’re having them followed. And Sherlock too?”

 

“Landed just before 5 o’clock, local time. Thoroughly engaged in the case, you couldn’t drag him away, I’m sure. We’ll just have to keep a remote eye on them. My best agents are on it, I assure you.”

 

“And their right to privacy…? Ah, screw it, it’s not like Sherlock worries about that shit with me and the force. What are they both doing tomorrow?”

 

“The Watsons have dinner reservations but no firm plans for the day. Sherlock is visiting the crime scene - a hotel, I believe, was where the last victim was found?”

 

 

“Yeah, Carlson Murphy’s body was found at Le Negresco Hotel, it’s some fancy place along the promenade.”

 

“Please, tell me you’re joking.” Mycroft passes a hand over his face. “That’s where the Watsons are having dinner.”

 

Lestrade can’t help it. He really tries, but he can’t contain the eruption of laughter that’s building inside him. Mycroft looks initially annoyed, but a moment later has joined him in the first actual, natural laugh Lestrade has ever seen from him. It makes him look younger, softer, more human. It’s a good look on him.

 

The laughter eventually dies away, and Lestrade struggles to regain control of his breathing. “Weird coincidence, though, the two of them ending up in the same place like that. Only Sherlock and John, huh?”

 

“Coincidence? The universe is rarely so lazy. Something pulls those two together, no matter how far they splinter away. A thread of fate links them. I have no doubt they will return to eachother in the end.”

 

Lestrade feels completely wrong footed. “I didn’t know you were such a romantic.” He takes a sip of his beer, unsure why he’s suddenly feeling nervous. “John’s married now, he’s not the sort to skip out on his wife.”

 

“Hmm. Perhaps not. But also, not the type to say no to Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Well, there’s only one way to settle this, isn’t there?”

 

Mycroft looks up, eyebrows raised, skeptical. “And what’s that?”

 

“You’ve got eyes and ears everywhere. We see what happens. If I’m right, the British Government buys all the guys at the Yard a round. _All_ of them.”

 

“And if I’m correct?”

 

“Well, you’ll have to choose what happens then. But I’m telling you, there’s no way I can afford to buy the whole government drinks. Or the secret service or whoever.”

 

“Hmm. I’ll have to think about it. I’ll upgrade their surveillance level and have visuals included. And of course, we’ll both have to book the next week off work. To keep an eye on the situation as it develops.”

 

“I’ll get more beers in, unless His Majesty of the British Government would prefer wine?”

 

They shake hands, and the deal is struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice airport is just off the coast, so as you sit on the beach the planes appear to be flying into and out of the sea - it’s pretty cool to watch. Hopefully I’ll get back on track and have the next chapter up by Monday, but who knows… keep an eye on my Tumblr @thejohnlockoutlet for updates, random ficlets and more bullshit from me!


	4. John is oblivious and grouchy, Sherlock is just plain grouchy, because he thinks he’s too smart to be oblivious.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner is booked for 8 o’clock at Le Negresco Hotel. John buttons himself into his shirt and puts on a brave face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be noted that especially from this point, Mary’s characterisation leaves the realms of canon. 
> 
> Hotel Negresco is a real hotel and landmark in Nice. I’ve never been there but needed a hotel name, and so how I describe it is entirely fictional, especially when I say it’s a little worn down and someone died there… don’t take this as bad press for the real hotel, I’m sure it’s lovely. Another disclaimer: I don’t know about guns. I tried, please let me live.
> 
> Sorry this is a little late! In my defence I’ve been in and out of hospital the last couple of days. (This is another bid for sympathy kudos. Don’t give in. Only give me deserved kudos.) Follow my Tumblr if you want to know way too much about what’s happening in my life and see me reblog some great Johnlock memes (and for fic updates) @thejohnlockoutlet. Enjoy :)

Sherlock Holmes is used to standing out like a sore thumb, but it’s usually because he’s covered in pig’s blood or smells of methane. He doesn’t mind being noticeable when his appearance is unusual for the setting. Here, however, he stands out merely because of his age, and the absence of a MacBook and expensive non-prescription glasses. Perhaps he isn’t as groomed at put together as he usually is, but does coffee really necessitate clean clothes and tidy hair? Ridiculous.

 

The outrageously expensive cafe is a necessary evil, however. His hotel room’s wifi is painfully slow, and Sherlock is not a man blessed with patience. Luckily his work, at least, is not seen as unusual here - the room is full of twenty-somethings with random notes and papers, writing the screenplays which he has no doubt will _not_ be the big break they’re all hoping for.

 

The large window burns bright with Mediterranean sun as Sherlock assembles the evidence into reasonable order and assembles comprehensive background research on the victims. Next, he turns his attention to the gunshot wounds - he’s unsure what kind of gun was used for the murders, and his usual sources are yielding nothing. This is one of the parts of his mind palace that he’d let rust and decay, and eventually he’d deleted altogether; John would tell him the answer before he’d even begun to access the information, and it was a waste of space to store information on both their hard drives. John has detailed knowledge of weaponry, medical biochemistry and popular culture, so Sherlock has very little detail on these subjects. This, of course, has now become a problem, since the time came when he was no longer able to consult his knitted-jumper-wearing external hard drive.

 

Frustrated, he considers his options. Mycroft would love Sherlock to come to him for help, and the thought of his smug smile rules out his assistance immediately. The police would take days to respond, and this case is potentially time sensitive. The internet is being little help, and the search is tedious. There’s only one option, and although it feels like some sort of line crossed, Sherlock can’t bring himself to worry too much.

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:07**

**[2 photo attachments]**

**Bullet fired from a distance of approximately 15 metres. Photo of the wound and bullet included. Identify the weapon? -SH**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:08**

**OMG Sherlock Im having lunch - or was, feel sick now**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:09**

**SIG-Sauer P226 or a similar pistol, I would guess. Tricky shot from that distance, almost definitely a trained gunman.**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:10**

**Good case?**

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:12**

**String of murders, abroad. Suitably distracting. -SH**

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:20**

**Useful to have your input, I’m grateful to you for taking the time. -SH**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:22**

**Sounds like ur having way 2 much fun without me :P**

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:23**

**Not at all.**

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:23**

**Do you have to write like that? I know you can struggle through proper sentences, and people even seem to think you’re quite good at them according to the comments on your blog. I detest having to translate, I’m doing enough of that out here already. -SH**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:25**

**LOL, ur 2 funny**

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:26**

**You’re doing it on purpose now. -SH**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:27**

**:O**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:27**

**LMAO**

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:28**

**I don’t know what that one means. -SH**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:29**

**Never mind, LOL**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:29**

**Wait, did the famous Sherlock Holmes really just admit he didn’t know something? :O**

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:33**

**There’s a lot I don’t know, John. The world is infinitely complicated. The more you learn about the world, the more you realise you don’t know.**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:35**

**You even sound like a smart-arse when you’re saying you don’t know something. I’m starting to think you aren’t smart at all, you just know a lot of long words…**

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:36**

**I have had that thought myself.**

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:37**

**Nice full sentences now, I see? -SH**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:40**

**U suck :P**

 

**To: Capt. John Watson**

**14:41**

**Idiot.**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**14:41**

**:D**

 

 

———

 

 

John is always uncomfortable eating at expensive restaurants. Remnants from his simple upbringing, he supposes; he hates the unnecessary pomp and ceremony over what is essentially just fuelling your body for another day. It seems ridiculous that at one point in his life he ate sparse rations in the Afghan desert, hoping only to survive until their next portion, and yet several worlds away people were worrying about which fork to eat their fish course with.

 

Mary has never quite understood this. She enjoys pretending to be very wealthy for a couple of hours, John guesses. She will, no doubt, take a photo of them both there for the benefit of her friends on social media. He does his best to indulge this need to show off their life together, although it makes him feel more of a fraud than anything - the couple she posts about on Facebook aren’t real. Those people are not Mary and John, imperfect but trying their damned hardest. It does them a disservice not to include how much hard work they put into maintaining their relationship.

 

Dinner is booked for 8 o’clock at Le Negresco Hotel. John buttons himself into his shirt and puts on a brave face.

 

It’s disgustingly grandiose and ornate, faded decor from a bygone age, before minimalism became a sign of wealth. Mary is clearly overjoyed with the appearance of the place, though, which makes the whole experience bearable for John. She gives away the fact that they don’t belong here in her every action: snapping photos on her phone, getting excited over the velour menus, and vocalising her amazement and the length of the wine list. John tries to play along. He’s doing well, until he sees the price of the wine she’s chosen.

 

“Jesus Christ Mary, we could afford to have the whole flat back home redecorated for that sort of money!” He explodes, without thinking. Several heads turn in his direction, and the waitress frowns.

 

“John! Be quiet, you’ll show us up!” Mary says in a harsh whisper. She turns to the waitress. “I’m so sorry, forgive my husband for his rudeness.”  
  
John scowls. “I can apologise for myself, thank you. I’m sorry if I offended you, I just don’t believe… I don’t think we’re in the position to be spending this much money on wines.” Mary turns beetroot red. John has, clearly, upset her by saying this, and he tries very hard to care.

 

“Not a problem, sir.” The waitress speaks in clipped tones, detectable through her thick French accent. She shakes her head. “I’ve had much worse rudeness even today, men coming in here as if they own the place, saying their little comments. You English men seem to need to learn some better manners, I think.” She tries to pass the comments off as a joke, but the laugh is false. John orders the expensive wine just to get her to shut up.

 

The evening is stilted after that. The conversation topics stick strictly to how pleasant the food is, and how nice the weather has been so far, and what they might do with the rainy day forecast for tomorrow. He isn’t sure why, but he gets some level of vindictive satisfaction in the emotional distance between them. The unavoidable fact is that he married her out of compromise, out of a need for normality, and it’s easier to keep the facade that he’s a normal man suitable for this normal life if he remains an emotional six feet away. When he lets his emotions near the surface, they seem to misdirect.

 

The tension breaks as John closes the apartment door behind them. He had known it would.

 

“John, dear, why did you think that the waitress in that very classy restaurant needed to know about our financial trouble?”

 

He lets out a sigh, locks the door, and then turns to face her. “I didn’t, Mary, I needed you to know, since you clearly had forgotten. We struggle to make the rent most months, we can’t blow all our savings out here or we’ll not have a home to go back to.”

 

“Just for once, I wish you would let go of the practicalities of life and appreciate the beauty, see the fun! It’s one bottle of French wine, it’s a beautiful warm night in one of the best restaurants in the city, and we’ve just good fucking married… When are you going to start enjoying this holiday?”

 

That struck a nerve. John coughed, and made to get out of the room, anywhere. He ended up in the small living room, surrounded by chairs and cushions and cozy decoration. He didn’t sit down.

 

Mary keeps speaking to him from her position by the door, her voice soft but firm. “John, walking away from our disagreements won’t solve them, you know that.”

 

“And what the _hell_ is that supposed to mean? Why do I know that, what the bloody hell, what the fuck do you mean by that?”

 

“John, I don’t-”

 

“Because Sherlock walked away from me? Because Sherlock chose to kill himself in front of me, or as it turns out _pretend_ to, and not tell me, I should know? We were talking about fucking wine and damn money and you bring that up? Fucking hell.” A cushion falls to the floor and John realises he’s kicking one of the cozy armchairs.

 

“John, I never brought up Sherlock, or- I would never! It was just a turn of phrase, I didn’t mean to-” Mary came into the living room as if entering the cage of a particularly vicious lion. Her nervous expression melted John’s anger, replacing his surface emotions with concern. “I know it’s been tricky for you John, it’s alright. Your friendship will get better, in time.”

 

John feels deflated, embarrassed by his outburst. It betrayed too much, showed too clearly how Sherlock still reigned powerful in his thoughts. He has to be more careful, that was a dangerous mistake. If this is going to work between them, he must try harder. “I’m sorry Mary, my love. You’re right, as usual. I think I might just be tired. I was just thinking about Sherlock because he texted me earlier.”  
  
“He texted you? While you’re on your honeymoon?”  
  
“Yeah, just case stuff. You know Sherlock, probably forgot we were out here, didn’t realise he wasn’t supposed to. Still…” he couldn’t help but say it. “It was nice to talk to him again. Like the old days.”

 

“I’m happy for you boys, finally sorting things out! Let me get you some tea, shall I?” She smiles at him optimistically, hoping they’ve reached some sort of delicate truce.

 

“No, don’t worry, I’m just going to go to bed I think. Tired.”

 

“We could do with some relaxation tomorrow, I think, and it’s not going to be beach weather. Why don’t we use those vouchers for the spa Stamford sent us?”

 

“Sounds great,” John grinned, trying his very best to sound convincing.

 

 

———

 

 

**To: The Queen of England**

**22:45**

**Are you an idiot or just disgustingly vindictive?**

 

**To: The Stupid One**

**22:46**

**You found out… The wifi had been disabled in your hotel. Preventative measures were taken to avoid your knowledge of the situation. It was an error of communication between myself and Greg.**

 

**To: The Queen of England**

**22:46**

**Greg?**

 

**To: The Stupid One**

**22:47**

**Don’t be obtuse, brother mine.**

 

**To: The Queen of England**

**22:47**

**A pair of idiots, perfect. I hope you’ll be very happy together.**

 

**To: The Queen of England**

**22:48**

**I saw them at the hotel while I was investigating. They were having dinner.**

 

**To: The Stupid One**

**22:48**

**And?**

 

**To: The Queen of England**

**22:50**

**And what?**

 

**To: The Stupid One**

**22:51**

**What transpired? I do hope you didn’t make a scene.**

 

**To: The Queen of England**

**22:53**

**I didn’t do anything. Why would I make a scene? They didn’t even see me there, anyway.**

 

**To: The Queen of England**

**22:54**

**I mean, John didn’t. I think Mary might have seen me, but it was obvious I wasn’t invited to join them for salad Niçoise. The Watsons are irrelevant to the current case, and the crime scene was much more stimulating. My mind was otherwise occupied.**

 

**To: The Stupid One**

**22:55**

**If you say so.**

 

**To: The Stupid One**

**22:56**

**But you didn’t text _me_ to ask about weaponry, despite my impressive array of resources quick at hand.**

 

**To: The Stupid One**

**23:05**

**I have some important information regarding your case, if you would deign to reply.**

 

**To: The Stupid One**

**23:10**

**Don’t be petulant, Sherlock.**

 

 

———

 

 

**To: ??? Lestrade**

**23:15**

**Please tell your new husband to stop reading my private text messages.**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**23:16**

**I really don’t want to get in the middle of this Jeremy Kyle situation you two have going on…**

 

**To: ??? Lestrade**

**23:18**

**Who’s Jeremy Kyle?**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**23:18**

**Don’t worry, it’s not important.**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**23:20**

**This is though: we’ve got the address where Victoire Trevor is currently staying. You were right, she’s moving around a lot to avoid the press. She’s at Sensations Spa, close to Place Masséna.**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**23:19**

**Get anything from the crime scene at the Hotel?**

 

**To: ??? Lestrade**

**23:20**

**Hotel has a good reputation but a little run down, and not really deserving of its food hygiene rating. Expensive, though. The victim was rich, but more interested in the status it brought him than the luxuries he could afford. He enjoyed a social life with other wealthy ex-pats living in the hotel, several of whom seem to have links to the suspect Trevor. Murphy was shot through the window in his room from the balcony of the apartment building across the road - we’re looking for a very experienced gunman with a **SIG-Sauer P226 or similar**  to have made the shot. Little to be gained from the scene, it had been thoroughly cleaned by some enthusiastic staff thinking they were to be praised for it. Most of the evidence gone, and they didn’t seem to understand why it mattered. Idiots.**

 

**To: ??? Lestrade**

**23:25**

**I looked up Jeremy Kyle. I’m offended.**

 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**23:30**

**Funny way of saying thanks for the help, but I’ll take it.**

 

 

———

 

 

_FAO: Mycroft Holmes_

 

_URGENT report on the activities of W.S.S.H._

 

_09.07.2014_

 

_[1 attached document]_

 

_Surveillance level ultra maintained._

_Wifi of hotel re-enabled, as instructed. W.S.S.H. spent 4 hours in internet cafe researching case details. During this time exchanged text messages with J.H.W. - see attachment. Visited Le Negresco Hotel, observed scene, and then left. Several restaurant staff upset by comments about food and demands for access to private storage areas. Observation maintained until 2200. Pleased to find Special Agent Bill working on a close assignment - had a nice catch up over ice cream in the old town when targets had gone to bed. Has had good haircut since last on a joint mission. Seems collaboration necessary tomorrow as W.S.S.H. plans to visit Sensations Spa._

 

_\- Special Agent Sam_

 

 

———

 

 

_FAO: Mycroft Holmes_

 

_URGENT report on the activities of J.H.W._

 

_[1 attached document]_

 

_09.07.2014_

 

_Surveillance level alpha maintained._

_J.H.W. and M.E.W. spent morning on beach, retiring to apartment at 1300 for late lunch. Texting intercepted during the afternoon, see file attached. Attended dinner as reserved at Le Negresco Hotel at 2000. Atmosphere tense after argument over money. Returned to apartment at 2200, when observation was terminated. Received intelligence at 2300 that vouchers from M. Stamford are being redeemed for Sensations Spa. After fun evening catching up with Special Agent Sam, pleased to work together again tomorrow._

_Request information: Special Agent Sam’s marital/relationship status._

 

_\- Special Agent Bill_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I got ya. Sherlock and John haven’t bumped into eachother… yet. Check back soon for the next chapter! And, yes, Sherlock does have John saved as “Captain” in his phone. Of course he does.  
> Writing the texting section of this chapter was one of those dream experiences you have as a writer, when the words write themselves and you’re just the one hitting the keys. I only planned for them to exchange a couple of texts, but the boys had other ideas and didn’t want the conversation to end.


End file.
